A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  “I’m sorry,” I said wretchedly.

  “And Erichsen’s not coming after all.”

  My heart sank. Perhaps I’d guessed correctly about why Mr. Flynn looked so grim in the courtroom. “He’s not?”

  “He’s laid up with pneumonia in some godforsaken town north of Edinburgh. We received a telegram this morning.” He stood at the fireplace, his right elbow on the mantel, his forehead resting on the palm, and his eyes closed as if he were in pain.

  That’s when I remembered Anne and Philip. “But, James, I may have something that can help. Felix Benedict had syphilis.”

  At first, he appeared not to have heard. And then, suddenly, his eyes opened and his whole body pivoted toward me. “What?”

  “Felix had syphilis,” I repeated. “Do you remember Paul saying that there might be a complicating factor? Well, there was.”

  His expression was incredulous. “How the devil would you know something like that?”

  “Philip Reynolds told me. He and Felix were very close friends.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’ve kept this from me too?”

  I swallowed hard. “There were aspects of their friendship that Philip didn’t want to make public.”

  His angry disbelief changed to horrified comprehension. “They were…intimate?”

  “No. But—” I took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you everything—but would you please sit down? I hate it when you stand over me, glaring like that.”

  Unwillingly, he took the chair opposite.

  I leaned forward. “I’m going to tell you everything in confidence, and you’re to listen as my cousin, not as Paul’s lawyer. Some of it you can use, but there is some that must stay between us. Agreed?”

  His lips thinned for a moment, but he nodded.

  I settled back against the reassuringly firm cushion. “The story about Philip that was in the papers was mostly wrong. He wasn’t an opium addict, or a sodomite, or any of those things. He went to that opium den to find Felix, who had been missing for days. Philip was worried about him.”

  James started. “So Benedict was the one….”

  I nodded.

  “But his name wasn’t in any of the papers.”

  “No. Felix’s family paid to keep his name out of it. But the paper kept Philip’s name in because otherwise it wouldn’t have been a story worth reporting.”

  “Because he’s an earl’s son.”

  “Exactly. Now, that much I’ve known for some time. And I couldn’t tell you because I swore to Anne months ago that I wouldn’t say a word to anyone. But the morning after you read the court order with Felix’s name on it, I went straight to Anne, to ask if Philip might testify about Felix’s opium use. She asked him, but he said that if he testified, people would assume that Felix went to that place with him, and he didn’t want to sully his friend’s name. You mustn’t blame him, James,” I added hurriedly as I saw the look on his face. “He really isn’t well.”

  His expression was grim. “You should have told me. I could have gotten a subpoena—forced him to testify.”

  “James! It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  “Well, you’re telling me now! What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is, Anne and Philip came here to this hotel, not an hour ago, and told me that Felix had syphilis—and I could tell you so. That much, we can use.”

  “But how?” he demanded, spreading his hands. “We have no proof. Philip’s testimony would be merely hearsay—not that he’d be a very credible witness anyway, given his reputation. The autopsy didn’t discover any signs of the disease, and it’s not as though we can recall Benedict from the grave to ask him. Besides, Wilcox already described the case and made no mention of syphilis, so how could I introduce it now? It would merely look like a convenient fabrication!”

  “But some of the symptoms of syphilis overlap with those of railway injuries! What’s more—Felix’s valet knew.”

  That stopped him cold. “The valet knew he had syphilis?”

  “Yes. And Philip thinks he might testify.”

  “Is he still with the Benedict family?”

  “No, but Philip has his address in London. He and Anne are on the train now, and they’re going to try to bring him back by tomorrow morning.”

  He blinked several times, thinking fast. “Did anyone else know about it?”

  “Only Dr. Morris,” I said meaningfully.

  He shook his head with certainty. “He’ll never admit to it on the stand. At this point, he has to lie.” He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, and when he spoke, it was more to himself than to me. “I wonder if Solmes knows.”

  “My guess is he doesn’t,” I said. “Why would Dr. Morris tell him? If it came out that a doctor couldn’t keep a secret like that—”

  “I know. He’d lose his practice. No one would ever trust him.” He thought for a long moment. “I don’t understand how Wilcox could miss such a thing, if he examined him the way he said. Surely there’d be rashes, or—”

  “Philip says the rashes came and went,” I interrupted. “Paul only saw him for a few days. Felix must not have had them then.”

  “Hm.” He frowned. “Well, I’ll mention the syphilis to Wilcox. He may think of something he saw, now that he knows the truth—although even if he does, I’m reluctant to introduce it without the valet to confirm it. We’ll just have to hope that Anne and Philip find him—and that he can come.” He stood up with a sigh. “But for now, we need to talk about what may happen tomorrow for you.”

  I felt my stomach tighten.

  “And I need you to listen to me, Elizabeth, very carefully.” All traces of anger were gone; he was now only a barrister, instructing a witness. “I think I have an idea about how you can help—if you are in fact called to the stand.”

  “If there’s something I can do to help Paul, tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and his voice became flat. “First of all, it’s Mr. Wilcox, not Paul, from now on, do you hear?”

  I nodded meekly.

  “All right, then.” He rested his hand on the back of his chair. “If Sir Solmes calls you, you need to appear above reproach, so that Wilcox looks above reproach. We need to prove that you went to the scullery that first night not because you wanted to help him—the handsome young medical man—but to help his patients. In other words,” he said dryly, “I want you to show that you were doing your Christian duty, as opposed to flirting.”

  I felt the sting of the word “flirting,” but I said only, “I understand. But how?”

  “Let me ask you. Why did you help him that first night?”

  I looked up at him uncertainly. “You want me to tell you the truth?”

  “Yes. All of it this time.”

  “Well,” I began slowly, “it was partly because I heard that he needed help—and none of the maids were willing to do it; they were too frightened. And partly because he was kind to me—and to Mama. When he found us in the field, he’d already been out there for hours.” I pictured the moment when Paul appeared, drenched and dirty but still kind and cheerful about helping us. “He took the time to wrap her ankle and stitch me up and make sure we both got on to one of the wagons that was going to Travers. He almost certainly saved Mama’s life by getting her out of the wet. We were both chilled to the bone, and she was so thoroughly overcome with pain and horror that she’d fainted.”

  I looked up. There was a glint in James’s eye, and he gave a nod of approval. “So you were grateful for his kindness, which you felt obliged to repay. Were you worried about your mother?”

  “Terrified, of course. She’s not strong at the best of times. You know that.”

  “And how did you feel watching the train wreck, smelling the fire, hearing the screams of people who were trapped inside the cars?”

  Perhaps he hadn’t meant to shock me; but tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn’t speak.

  “Precisely,” he said softly and stepped to
ward me, ticking his fingers. “Gratitude toward him, fear for your mother, horror at what you’d seen, and sympathy for your fellow victims. Those are all laudable, believable, feminine virtues. The courtroom will swing your way in a heartbeat.” He gazed down at me. “I don’t want you to lie—and you don’t have to. Do you understand?”

  I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat and nodded.

  “Good.” He pursed his lips. “One thing in our favor is that your face is as easy to read as a book. I almost hope Solmes does put you on the stand.”

  “Do you think it’s likely?”

  He shrugged. “It depends on what his man finds out at the hotel.”

  And on whether Sir Solmes thinks he’ll be able to put my actions in the worst possible light.

  “That’s not all,” he said. “Tomorrow when you enter the courtroom, do not even look in Wilcox’s direction. Keep your face calm and demure. Maybe even a little bored. Leave your gloves on, and don’t fidget with them.”

  No looking. Calm. Demure. Bored. No fidgeting. “All right.”

  “If you are put on the stand, keep your replies short. Be thoughtful but unimpassioned because”—he enunciated each word carefully—“this man is nothing more than your mother’s surgeon. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. “I was helping the people who were injured—not Mr. Wilcox.”

  “Don’t argue over the little untruths that Solmes will try to slip in,” he continued. “It’ll make you appear defensive. Let those go. Save your rebuttals for the big ones, and hang on to your dignity. Speak from your heart as much as you can. The jury will respond well to that.”

  I hoped I could manage all of this under scrutiny. “I’ll try.”

  “Another thing.” His eyes narrowed. “If he tries to get you to admit to something that isn’t exactly what you mean, I want you to say yes, as if you’re agreeing, but then add what you need to say. For example, if he says that you know nothing about treating injuries, you say, yes, that you’ve only ever helped sedate and stitch up wounds on horses. He won’t be able to object, and the jury will remember your words, not his. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And be sure to keep your voice soft and gentle, no matter what he says—no matter how insulting or ridiculous his questions. Can you promise to do that?”

  “I promise.” I added awkwardly, “I know it may not seem so, James, but I was watching very closely today, and I could tell how carefully you’d prepared Mr. Wilcox. I saw how confidently he responded when Sir Solmes asked about his apprenticeship. I saw how it was you who made the deprecatory remarks about Dr. Morris, so that Mr. Wilcox could take the higher moral ground. Honestly, until now, I had no idea how very accomplished you are at this.”

  He avoided my eyes by picking up his coat and shrugging into the sleeves. “Well, we’ll see if it does any good. Now, I’m going to get some dinner and then I’m going back to see Wilcox.” He drew on his gloves. “One last thing. If by some remarkable chance the jury acquits him, do not give any sign that you’re pleased.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “I won’t, if you say so. But why not?”

  “Because his reputation as a surgeon—and his ability to keep working as one after this trial—will depend on his name being cleared. Not just inside the courtroom, but in the eyes of the public. All it takes is one newspaperman who thinks that you lied on the stand to help Wilcox—”

  “I understand. Truly, James, I do.” I paused. “But how can Sir Solmes compel me to testify, short of issuing a subpoena?”

  “I daresay he’ll have one at hand; but he is counting on your presence tomorrow in the courtroom, as an interested party.”

  “I could stay away,” I suggested doubtfully.

  “No, it’s best if you take the stand without the subpoena, as if you have nothing to hide.”

  There was a part of me that wanted to insist that I didn’t have anything to hide. But I couldn’t pretend not to understand what he meant.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said humbly.

  His mouth opened as though there were something more he wanted to say. But after a moment, he shook his head, picked up his case, and left me alone.

  Chapter 35

  The sky was hung with lowering gray clouds as we arrived at the courthouse the next morning. My stomach was in knots, and the bit of toast I’d managed to choke down at the hotel wasn’t sitting well.

  Mr. Flynn was leaning against a wall outside of the courtroom, his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets as usual. He looked exhausted, unshaven, and anxious, and I felt a pang of intense sympathy; we were in much the same boat, with Paul on trial, the Parliamentary hearing three days away, and little possibility of a satisfactory ending to either.

  He straightened up as he saw me; clearly he had something to impart. James muttered in my ear, “Not a word about the valet.” I promised, and after he and my uncle went into the courtroom, I approached Mr. Flynn.

  “They’ll be putting you on the stand today,” he said without preamble. “Solmes obtained a subpoena first thing this morning.”

  I nodded. “James guessed he would. He helped me prepare last night.”

  Behind me, the door opened and closed repeatedly as people entered the courthouse; Mr. Flynn watched them over my shoulder. “He’s going to twist everything.”

  “I know.”

  He looked so miserable that I wished I could have said something to him about our hope for the valet. But mindful of James’s warning, I didn’t. Instead, I asked if he’d discovered anything more about the railway scheme.

  He shrugged. “Hayes has finally been taken in for questioning. That’s something, I suppose.”

  I gasped. “Something? Why, that’s exactly what you were hoping for! How did that happen?”

  “I found the clerk that Hayes paid to suppress Griffin’s report, and he agreed to talk to an inspector at Scotland Yard. So finally they’re beginning an investigation. They picked up Hayes yesterday at his club, and from what I understand, they’re going to bring in Poole as well.”

  I clutched at his arm. “Mr. Flynn, surely you see how important this is! Why aren’t you more pleased?”

  He looked at me peculiarly. “Because it’s too late.”

  “But you still have three days until the hearing.”

  He pulled his arm away from mine. “I meant for Paul.”

  With a jolt, I realized that while the railway story may have been important to Mr. Flynn in Travers, the only thing he cared about now was his friend. And he still believed that uncovering the scheme had been Paul’s best chance.

  “Paul may be acquitted,” I reminded him gently.

  “Even if he is, it’s not going to help him much.”

  I stared. “What do you mean? Of course it will!”

  “Things are going to come out today. Not just things about you.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Things that never should have come to light. Things that aren’t even relevant.” His voice dropped so low that I had to strain to hear it. “It’s going to destroy him.”

  I felt a chill down to my bones.

  His expression was weary. “You’d best go in,” he said and walked away from me, out to the street.

  —

  The room looked almost exactly as it had the day before, but with less sunlight and more of a crowd.

  As my uncle and I went to our seats, I followed to the letter James’s directions about appearing demure and calm and slightly bored. God knows I felt anything but.

  I heard Paul take his place in the dock but kept my eyes on the seams of my gloves.

  James began: “Mr. Wilcox, is it true that you were called in to treat Mr. Percy Rowell?”

  “Yes. I examined him shortly after the railway accident occurred.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I suspected him of feigning his injuries.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He described them in a way that matched almost word
for word one of the cases in John Erichsen’s book.”

  “This book?” James picked up a copy of On Concussion of the Spine.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you read from your patient log what you wrote down after you first saw Mr. Rowell?” He handed Paul his notebook.

  Paul read from a dog-eared page: “Visited Percy Rowell this evening. Young man of twenty-three. Claims to have been in the railway accident at Croftsbury several weeks ago, for which he wishes to sue the railway for damages. Claims to be troubled by—I am quoting him—‘horrible dreams, often frightened and confused.’ Says his head feels hot as if with fever and insists he can barely hear out of his right ear, though he admits the hearing in his left ear is normal. He claims to see a fixed vertical line across his field of vision. He complains also of seeing flashes, stars, and colored rings. Reports a degree of numbness and a feeling of ‘pins and needles’ in his left arm and leg, a sensation that is worst in the morning.”

  “And now, please read the marked passage from Mr. Erichsen’s book.” James took the notebook and handed Paul the copy of On Concussion of the Spine.

  “Case 28. Mr. C.W.E., aged about fifty, naturally a very healthy man, weighing nearly seventeen stone was in a railway collision on February 3, 1865. He was violently shaken to and fro, but received no bruise or any sign whatever of external injury. He was troubled with horrible dreams, and waked up frightened and confused. His head was habitually hot, and often flushed. The hearing of the right ear was very dull; the hearing of the left ear was normal. He saw a fixed line or bar, vertical in direction, across the field of vision. He complained also of flashes, stars, and colored rings. He complained of a degree of numbness, and of ‘pins and needles’ in the left arm and leg. All these symptoms were worst on first rising in the morning.”

  “I see it bears a striking similarity,” James said. “But many railway injuries have similar kinds of symptoms, do they not?”

  “Yes, but it is truly remarkable to find the language and the very order in which he described the symptoms to be so similar.”